Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  They had started simply: they paid Yannick to steal a few cases here and there, then sold them in Japan and China. Vincent, Olivier knew, was aware that the families wouldn’t report the thefts. It worked for a while, Wexler said, but then stories of the thefts began appearing in newspapers. That was when they decided to fill a few fine bottles they found in the basement of Vincent’s father’s building with a lesser wine that was made at Vincent’s new processing plant and pass those off to investors. It was a success from the start, mainly because they all had excellent connections to people who were clamoring to invest in wine.

  Olivier interjected, “The Mouton-Rothschild magnums were from Yves Barthes’ business?”

  Wexler nodded “Vincent’s grandfather was the négociant for the vineyard back in the 40’s and 50’s. The bottles and the labels were authentic.”

  “But not the wine that went to Bill Casey,” Olivier said.

  “One of the four bottles was authentic,” Wexler explained. “I think that’s the way we did it. Ellen tasted a fake. The authentic one was a birthday present to Vincent from his father when he turned twenty-one.”

  Olivier thought how different the outcome would have been had Ellen opened that one. It was this kind of randomness that made him believe in fate.

  Walt started to pace. “Finish your story.” A detective sitting quietly in the room started the tape recorder again.

  “We were making millions. If people got suspicious we agreed we would quit, but for Paula it became an obsession. We stashed a lot of the money in Switzerland.”

  “And spent.”

  “That, too. Finally, Paula thought things were getting out of hand and wanted to give it a rest. She had the apartment and the car she wanted. Vincent could show his father a big profit, and sell his supermarket operation. I was fully established. It was perfect.”

  “Then Ellen stepped into the picture and told Bill Casey that the Mouton was a fake,” said Walt.

  “How’d you know that?”

  Walt, irritated, said, “It’s not rocket science. You take over, Olivier.”

  Olivier said, “Bill Casey told Paula that Ellen was taking the wine to France to have it tested, correct?”

  Wexler nodded. “Vincent was in New York when Paula decided that Ellen was going to bring us all down. She decided to kill her. Vincent sent Ellen a warning note, because he didn’t want to be a part of it. But Ellen ignored it.”

  “So who killed her?” Walt asked in a loud voice.

  “I told you. Vincent.” Wexler held his stomach and said he had to be excused, and an officer took him out.

  “What do you think?” Walt asked Hank.

  “A man who would beat up a woman, the way he did Max, would easily kill.”

  Olivier said, “It makes sense that Vincent put the poison into the cheese.”

  “And where did the aconite come from?” Walt asked.

  Olivier answered quickly. “The foreman, Yannick Martin.”

  “Paula Goodwin was in New York feigning illness, clever woman,” said Walt.

  Hank spoke at last. “What’s Paula Goodwin’s status?”

  “MIA. We’ve checked out everything.”

  “Put it out there that the killer has been found,” Hank said. “It might slow her down if she knows Wexler’s been caught.”

  “I’ll put it on the news tonight,” Walt said. “She’ll want the cash that Vincent retrieved from Switzerland. I wonder if he was to meet them in Australia?”

  “That was my thought,” Olivier said. They had started to go around in circles.

  “I’m going to pick up Juliette and take her home,” Hank said to Olivier. He looked at Olivier. “Need a lift?”

  For the first time, Olivier allowed exhaustion to wash over him. It was midnight. “I accept,” he said, and they went out to the street and got into Hank’s unmarked car.

  “You did some fine detective work,” Hank said.

  “I wish events had coincided better,” Olivier said.

  “Meaning you would have gotten to Max in time to warn her? You tried.” He wove in and out of traffic as he made his way down Second Avenue. “I’ve never come across a murder occurring over wine.”

  “It could have been art, but happened to be wine,” Olivier said.

  “Do you invest in wine?” Hank asked.

  “I have around 200 bottles. I’m not competing, though, for rare wines. I purchase mine in a good year and wait patiently for them to come into their own.”

  “How long you talking?”

  “A decade for many of them. Some will be perfect in twenty years.”

  “You’re that patient?”

  “Sometimes not.”

  “Max mentioned that her grandmother wanted her to come to Burgundy for the summer. I hope she’ll go and stay a month. She has a lot of vacation time built up. Maybe she’ll get out of police work altogether.”

  “I think she’d be surprised to hear you think that. It’s her passion.”

  “You really mean that? Everybody assumed after Frédéric died that I wanted my daughter to replace him. That may have been true at first. But now…” When Olivier didn’t respond, he continued, “All parents really want is for their kid to be happy, right?”

  Olivier nodded, but thought his parents wanted much more than their child’s happiness. “Patience is a good quality,” Hank was saying, “but maybe overrated. I didn’t think I stood a chance with Juliette, but I went for it. Everything happened fast after that.”

  They were in front of Max’s apartment building. “Good-night,” Olivier said, not giving Hank the opportunity to ask any questions about Max and him.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  April 10

  Olivier was asleep on the sofa and opened his eyes when Max entered the living room. “Bonjour,” he said. “You were sleeping soundly when I came in and I didn’t want to wake you.”

  She yawned. “I ended up taking a pain pill. I was thinking about the bottles of wine I broke when I woke up.”

  He sat up. “A couple of bottles of Margaux ’82 were broken, and the bottle you opened for your last communion was a lovely wine from Burgundy, a Nuits-Saint-Georges. Good choices, by the way.” He watched her take a package of coffee beans from the freezer, then waited while she pressed the button on the coffee grinder.

  “I wish I had a better memory of the taste.”

  “Too bad you didn’t have the experience of drinking the genuine ’45 Mouton at Bill Casey’s gathering, a rare experience for anyone.”

  “Something I have in common with several billion other people. I’ll manage the way they do.” She sat down beside him on the sofa while the coffee was brewing. “Now tell me about last night.”

  He filled her in, ending with, “but no sign of Paula Goodwin.”

  “She must have friends all over the world willing to jump in to help her.”

  “They’d aid a suspect?” Olivier asked.

  “There’s no reason for them to know, but even if they did, their disbelief that their ‘wine guru’ would cheat them would take over.”

  “I’m surprised she left Wexler alive,” Olivier said.

  “She left Wexler to be picked up, which makes me think he murdered Ellen. All the better for her if he confesses.”

  “You seem to understand her well.”

  “Hank’s been giving me a few lessons.”

  She jumped up. “I have to get ready to meet my mother in a couple of hours, and I have police files to write up before I do.”

  The apartment phone rang and she switched to French. “Ah, bonjour, Mamie! She glanced over at Olivier and smiled. Olivier got up to pour some coffee. “Oui, oui. D’accord. Bon. Vraiement? Okay, merci, Mamie, au revoir,” she said into the phone, nodding her head the entire time. She hung up. “Mamie told me Douvier was ex
cited to learn of the capture of Larry Wexler last night,” she said to Olivier. “He’s about to present to the French public that Ellen Jordan’s killer was found in New York, and that the case is closed.”

  Olivier said, “Captain O’Shaughnessy is focusing on the Wexler arrest which will make Goodwin think she got away with setting up her partner as the guilty party. It seems to be working with Douvier, too, though that wasn’t my intention. I want to know how Paula and Wexler both knew your identity.”

  “I called Joe from the bar at the Hôtellerie Renaissance bar the night Ellen was murdered to get the code to break into her computer. Vincent lent me his mobile to make the call, and we figured that later he called that number and Detective Joe Laino answered. I also might have been filmed listening to the answering machine in the bedroom.”

  “Any idea when Vincent let Wexler in on your identity?”

  “Probably seeing me in the bistro with you and Abdel made him suspicious, and he began investigating.” She went to her little desk and pulled out files. “Hey, did my shoulder bag come with me from the hospital?”

  “Your father would know. I need to verify that I’m leaving on the 11:30 flight tonight. I should arrive in Bordeaux around five tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Don’t tell me. A group decision has been made to leave me here. Thus the dinner.”

  “What do you mean? My plan is to check on things in France, then meet you in Australia in a few days. By then your injuries…”

  “I’m fine. Paula Goodwin is on her way there to find Vincent. You want to use your power of persuasion to get Walt to let me go?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. You think Goodwin slipped through before airports were put on high alert?”

  “I do. And if she has my bag, she has my passport, gun, detective shield, and credit card. Walt can find out if Max Maguire has entered France.”

  “There’s no way she could be mistaken for you.”

  “We’re both blond. And with my credentials she’s carrying, do you think security officers will study the photo?”

  “The French may be more skeptical. My gut is telling me she’s on her way to Australia, if that counts for anything. Check to see if someone has charged anything to your credit card.”

  Max decided to ignore the sarcasm, as she felt a fight brewing. Hank was emphatic that a detective mustn’t second-guess that first intuition, but she felt herself weakening slightly. “She wouldn’t get far with a $3,000 limit,” Max said lightly. She stood up and glanced in the mirror, feeling disgruntled about giving up work for a few hours of pampering with her mother, but a promise was a promise, even though she had promised while almost unconscious.

  “I’ll go to the precinct while you’re with your mother.”

  “Are you sure you want to do dinner tonight?” she asked. “I’m fine with take-out here again.”

  “Max, do you know how many times you’ve asked me if I’m sure?”

  “It seems weird to be going to a fabulous restaurant when we have a crime to solve.”

  “You just came up with a theory about your shoulder bag while having coffee and talking to your grandmother. You were relaxed.”

  “Okay. Point taken.” He disappeared into the bathroom and she heard the shower start. She got up to check the bedroom closet once more, in case her mother had put her bag there. Olivier was humming a tune. On impulse, she opened the sliding door to the shower and stepped in.

  ***

  Max entered the front door of Veritas, on East 20th Street, a restaurant that a food critic for The New York Times had called “an elegant little jewel box.” She walked through a hip crowd at the bar, carrying her weekend bag, which the maitre’d offered to store for her. He then led her into a cozy room humming with the conversation of a small group of diners. Pendant lights cast a warm glow onto the bare, dark wood tables, contributing to the intimate atmosphere.

  She smiled as she sat on the banquette that ran the length of the wall. Walt had said yes to her returning to France, and Hank hadn’t interfered, which surprised and pleased her. She and her mother had spent the afternoon being pampered with a manicure, a new hairstyle, and even a new dress. They had finally settled on a short, red, soft stretch jersey number, which was as far from Max’s norm as she ever cared to go, and now she sat second-guessing their selection.

  The sommelier came to greet her and Max readily accepted the glass of champagne he offered. She didn’t see Olivier until he was upon her. She smiled up at him, where he stood calmly behind his chair, looking at her. “What’s wrong?” she asked, feeling self-conscious. “Lipstick on my teeth?”

  “Au contraire, tu sembles…parfaite.”

  “I’m far from perfect,” she laughed. “My mother went a little crazy, don’t you think?”

  He sat down across from her and picked up her glass of champagne, and sipped. “Louis Roederer,” he said. The sommelier appeared with the wine list that was thick as a Bible, and Olivier decided on a white burgundy to start, a 2008 Domaine Leflaive Les Combettes, a Puligny-Montrachet Premier Cru.

  “Are you okay with the tasting menu?” he asked. She nodded, knowing that it was just that: a way to sample multiple tiny portions that the chef thought best represented his talent.

  The server arrived with an amuse-guile. “It’s a roasted wild mushroom shooter with hen-of-the-wood, oyster, and shitake mushroom crostini,” she said.

  Olivier sipped. His eyes sparkled. “Do you taste how the light and airy Porcini foam betrays the woodsy, earthy note of a mushroom that’s been distilled down to its essence?”

  “Uh…no.”

  Olivier laughed. “I love how the earthiness of the mushrooms brings out the brioche in the champagne.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  “You’re making fun of me,” he said.

  “I can’t help it. I thought brioche was bread.”

  “It’s special bread, very yeasty and sweeter than usual toast.”

  “How depressing that I will probably never develop that je ne sais quoi…perhaps the extra olfactory sense that some French people seem born with.”

  “It’s not an extra sense, but the way all our senses work together, perhaps?”

  The sommelier returned with the wine, and waited for Olivier to give his approval, which he did with a subtle nod. The server brought small, white plates upon which rested Montauk Pearl oysters with tequila lime mignonette. The sauce enhanced the acidity of the Puligny-Montrachet perfectly. Max savored the sensation of cold stone that the oysters had clung to before being picked, and the vibrant tang of the wine, making her think for a second she was sipping a sparkling wine. Maybe this was the extra-sensory something that happened when a perfect marriage occurred between certain foods and wine. Or perhaps it was the way Olivier kept looking at her, as though she were an amuse-gueule.

  He was behaving true to form when dining. Nothing else existed. While sipping wine, he told her about the first time he tasted wine at his grandmother’s birthday, and how French parents often put champagne on the lips of infants, a ritual intended to make them a Champenois for life.

  He looked at her. “You’re not in pain.”

  “I’ve felt worse after a Jiu-Jitsu tournament, so yes, I’m fine. I turned my body to ward off the worst blows.”

  The server came to the table and announced: “Smoked salmon served with a crispy poached egg over a mimosa of egg and crème fraiche.”

  “Sounds poetic,” Max said.

  “The salmon has a terrific hue and delicate texture,” Olivier said. Max took a bite. It melted on her tongue with just a hint of smoke in the sweet finish.

  “The poached egg is deep fried,” Olivier said in French. “Notice how the wine shines through the egg and complements the smokiness of the salmon.” She looked at him to ascertain whether or not he was showing off, but he was foc
used, tasting the food the same way he tasted wine. “Let’s go back to talking about our nemesis, if it isn’t too much like pouring vinegar over our dinner,” Olivier said.

  “Paula? She could disappear for years.”

  “So far she’s looking pretty innocent as far as evidence goes. She was in New York when Ellen was murdered by either Vincent or Wexler. Wexler beat you up, not her. She may get pegged for selling fake wine, but there isn’t proof that she was involved in the counterfeiting.”

  Max nodded. “She blew it when she held a gun on me, but she’s thinking now that I’m going to be dead before I become a problem for her.”

  “Perhaps you will get to surprise her,” Olivier said.

  “I hope I’m armed.”

  Olivier said, “That’s why I’m keeping a guard at Vincent’s, until we decide to arrest him. My thought is she needs him, and will try to persuade him to go wherever it is that she has planned out.”

  The sommelier arrived to announce the red wine to be served with the house-brined wooly pig, a half-bottle of a 2005 Bordeaux, Pichon-Longueville Baron. “It’s bold, but with refinement,” Olivier said. “It will hold up well with the rest of the dinner.”

  Just then, Chef Sam Hazen, a handsome bear of a man, ambled over and shook hands with Olivier and Max. Olivier asked about the name ‘wooly pig,” the course that was to arrive next, and Hazen said it was their version of the American BLT. “The pork is served over flash-sautéed lettuce with charred grape tomatoes and a crispy pork croquette.”

  Max was intrigued that a man resembling a lumberjack had created the delicacies that had been placed before her. He moved on to another table.